The Day the Music Died
by SassyPantsJaxon
Summary: Alfred Kirkland is growing up in the middle of the Cold War, trying to decide whether to take care of his family or follow his dreams, while also facing tragedy, heartbreak, and finding himself. First person POV. Face family. Inspired by the Don McLean song 'American Pie'.
1. Chapter 1

_ A long, long time ago_  
_I can still remember how that music used to make me smile_  
_And I knew if I had my chance_  
_That I could make those people dance_  
_And maybe they'd be happy for a while_

_But February made me shiver_  
_With every paper I'd deliver_  
_Bad news on the doorstep_  
_I couldn't take one more step_

_I can't remember if I cried_  
_When I read about his widowed bride_  
_But something touched me deep inside_  
_The day the music died_

* * *

\ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / /

* * *

The year was 1959, I was 17 and close to graduating, and for a little while, life wasn't bad.

I shivered as I pulled my brother into the record store on our way home from school.

"Alfred," Matthew whined, "We're supposed to go straight home."

"We will. We're just warming up first. It'll only be a minute." I agreed as a wandered through the rows of shelves.

"Alfred," Matthew repeated as he followed me. I stopped in front of a rock-and-roll display. "Alfred, Maman doesn't like you listening to that."

"Are you going to tell her?" Matthew shook his head. "Me neither, so quit complaining." I flipped through a few records.

"What about this one?" Matthew offered.

I glanced over at him and shook my head, "I already have that one."

"What about Elvis?" he offered again.

"I have Elvis."

"Buddy Holly? You like him."

"That's why I already have his records," I sighed, "Nothing new. You want anything?" Matthew shook his head. "I'll buy you a coke at the grocery if you want?"

Matthew shook his head, "Maman expects us to be home before her."

"I have to go to the hardware store too. Sure you don't want a coke?" Matthew nodded. "Suite yourself. Come on." I led him across the street.

"What do you need here?" Matthew asked as soon as we were inside the door.

"Maman's sewing machine is broke, I think I can fix it, but I need some parts. And I need a few things for the truck too."

"Can we drive it soon?"

I handed him a few bolts for the truck and a screw for the sewing machine, "Hopefully."

"What are you going to do then?"

"Probably just drive to the garage and fix everybody else's cars and trucks. You know, work there once I graduate."

Matthew nodded, then paused, "What about your guitar?"

I shrugged, "That's just for fun."

That wasn't quite true. I didn't want to just drive to the next town over every day of my life, I wanted to take my old truck and drive far far away. And I wanted to take my guitar and nothing else and make a living off of it. Just playing music for the rest of my life. Not just music, Rock and Roll. But Maman wouldn't like that, and I can't leave her and Matthew anyway, so it's just a dream.

* * *

As soon as we got home I turned on the radio and switched it from Maman's gospel music to a rock and roll station. I sang along with Elvis as I settled down in front of Maman's sewing machine. Matthew was in the kitchen, starting dinner so it would be ready by the time Maman came home.

She took the bus to the next town to cook breakfast at the diner there every morning, and stayed there until almost dinner time everyday. Then she came home and did whatever sewing or mending she had been hired for until she couldn't stay awake anymore. It's been this way ever since Dad died. When we were younger, Matthew and I would stay at a neighbour's house until she came home, but I'm almost an adult now, and Mattie isn't really a kid anymore either, so now we take care of ourselves.

I got so focused on the music and the machine that I didn't even notice Maman was home until she switched the radio off. "Oh, Alfred," she sighed as she sat down next to me.

"Hi," I said, "I'm almost done here. I think it'll live."

"Thank you, Alfred, but you know I don't really like you listening to that music."

"Yeeeeeaaaaahhhh," I stretched the word out as long as I could.

"Father Thomas came to the diner today," Maman got up and went about finishing dinner, "He asked about you joining the choir."

I hesitated, "What did you tell him?"

"I told him you're still busy with marching band."

"Okay." I started putting the sewing machine back together.

"But I think it would be good for you to join the choir. You have a wonderful voice, Alfred."

"Maman," I sighed.

"I just don't want to see it go to waste."

I sighed again, the church choir really wasn't where I wanted to sing.

* * *

After dinner I went out to the garage to work on the truck. It was an old piece of junk that I had gotten for less than I paid for my guitar. But it was my only chance out of this place, and it was mine. The garage used to house Dad's old Cadillac, but Maman had sold it to make a payment on the house soon after Dad died, since she couldn't drive and needed the money more. Then it had sat empty for years until I bought the truck and my friend John helped me bring it home. Now the garage was my space. The truck, all my tools, and the record player and guitar Maman didn't know I had. I put on a Buddy Holly record and sang along as I tried to figure out what was keeping the piece of junk from starting.

Maman doesn't really like the dirt and grease in here, so she doesn't ever come in. Matthew sees enough of me in our shared room, and John can't tell a carburetor from a wheel well, so they don't come in either. So it's just me, the truck, and rock and roll. It's not a bad deal. With as much as I listen to Buddy Holly and Elvis and the others, I almost feel like they're friends of mine. Maman wouldn't approve, but I don't care, it's what make me happy.

* * *

I sometimes wish the world had ended that morning, just so I didn't have to get up. In some ways, it almost felt like the world had ended. I had woken up early, Matthew was still asleep, and Maman had already left for the diner, so it was like I was the only person in the world as I went out to deliver the morning newspaper. I think I delivered them all that day, or at least I never heard any complaints about anyone on my route not receiving their paper. I was in too much of a daze to quite remember the rest of the day. I picked up the papers to be delivered that day, only the be faced with the worst headline I could imagine. Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and JP Richardson had all been killed in a plane crash.


	2. Chapter 2

_Did you write the book of love_  
_And do you have faith in God above_  
_If the Bible tells you so?_  
_Now do you believe in rock and roll?_  
_Can music save your mortal soul?_  
_And can you teach me how to dance real slow?_

_Well, I know that you're in love with him_  
_'Cause I saw you dancin' in the gym_  
_You both kicked off your shoes_  
_Man, I dig those rhythm and blues_

_I was a lonely teenage broncin' buck_  
_With a pink carnation and a pickup truck_  
_But I knew I was out of luck_  
_The day the music died_

* * *

/ / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \ / / / \ \ \

* * *

I don't really remember school that day either. I know I was there, but I can't remember anything that happened. Afterwards, I walked home with Matthew, but then sent him inside and kept walking. Another mile or two, then leave the road and take an old path down to the river. I've been coming here for years, since before I had the garage to become my sanctuary. Now that I have the garage I don't come here as often, but today I just wanted to get away and be alone.

I sat down in the snow, watching the icy water flow past below me. I sat there, shivering in the cold, for at least an hour.

"Alfred?" I looked behind me, John was standing at the top of the bank, watching me.

"Oh, hi." I looked away from him, even as he sat next to me.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I shrugged, "I just needed to think. You know. Away. From everything."

"Do you want me to leave?" he offered.

I looked at John. Tall, pale, and frankly a little weird, John. He and I have been fighting since the day we met, but he's also my best friend. "You can stay."

"Can I ask what you're thinking about?"

I sighed heavily, "Do you ever think about what you're going to do after we graduate? A whole world of possibilities, what would you choose?"

"If I could do anything? No limitations?"

"None."

John looked up at the sky, "Nothing on this world."

"Oh." I followed his gaze to the faint outline of the moon. "Oh," I sighed again.

"And what would you do?"

"That's just the thing," I stood up, pacing around, "Dad would have wanted me to go to college. Maman wants me to stay here and get a job as a mechanic. I don't know which one I should choose."

"What do you want to do? Without your parent's wishes in the way?"

I looked at John for a minute before sitting down again, "I just want to play music. Rock and roll. I wanted to be like Buddy Holly."

"Why can't you?"

"He's dead, John. He died yesterday. Him and Ritchie Valens, and the Big Bopper. And Elvis was drafted and there's nobody left to play it."

"So why can't you?" John asked logically.

"What if nobody wants to hear it anymore? They'd think I'm just some dumb kid from nowhere playing music that died in Iowa."

John was quiet. "Okay," he finally said, "Then don't do it. Go to college and become a mechanic anyway and regret everything you threw away before it had a chance."

"I know what you're doing, John, stop it."

"I'm just telling you to give up on your dreams-"

"No you're not! You're telling me the exact opposite!"

"Is it working?" John smiled.

"No! Go away!"

Surprisingly enough, John did stand up, then offered me a hand, "I'll walk you home, if you'd like?"

I sighed again and let him pull me to my feet, "Fine."

* * *

Dad was writing a book before he died. Well, that's not true, he was writing a lot of books. There are at least a dozen half-finished manuscripts on a shelf in the living room. I was looking at them when Maman came home.

"Alfred?" she asked, startling me.

I jumped, dropping the stack of loose papers on the floor. "Oh, Maman, I'm sorry. I fix them." I said as we both knelt to pick up the scattered pages.

"Do you know which ones go together?"

"I think so, or at least I can figure it out."

"You're usually working on your truck at this time," she handed me a stack of paper, "Did you finally get it working?"

"Not yet," I sighed, "I just didn't want to be in the garage today."

She brushed my hair away from my face,"Missing your father?"

"Yeah," I whispered, "I wish he were here."

"So do I. He would have loved to see the man you've become."

I nodded, unable to give any other response.

"I'm going to go finish dinner. I'll help you with the papers afterwards." she promised.

"You don't need to."

She kissed me on the forehead, "But I will."

I couldn't listen to my records today, so I had come inside and started looking through Dad's books, wanting to be surrounded by a different set of memories. I had looked through the books before, but never really read them. It's not very rewarding to read something that's missing the middle. Or the end. Or the beginning. It wasn't going to be easy to sort them out when I didn't know anything about them. I sorted out a couple papers, trying to guess where they belonged based on the names written.

I stopped when I saw Maman's name on one of them. Did one of his old letters get mixed in? No, he had written his own name too. I sat down, reading a little closer. Not a letter, a love story, their story. I smiled, setting that paper further away from the others, wondering how far he had gotten with it, the end of the war? Me? Matthew? Maybe he had actually finished. Maybe he gave us all a happy ending, that'd be nice.

* * *

The next morning, when I got up to deliver papers again, Maman hadn't left yet. She was sitting at the kitchen table, her bible open in front of her, head bowed in prayer. I left quietly, not wanting to disturb her.

I don't remember going to church much as a kid, maybe because Dad wasn't much of a believer. Maman is. I think she always has been, but after Dad died, church became a weekly event. She really believes in it, which is more than I can say for myself. Maybe she just needed something to hang onto without Dad. Maybe I should try a little harder. Maybe I'm just thinking too deeply.

* * *

"Are you going to the winter formal?" I asked John after our last class of the day.

"I don't know," he sighed, "I don't have anyone to bring. What about you? Are you going to take Corinne?"

"I don't know," I shrugged, "We're not really that serious, she might actually be going with someone else. I haven't asked."

"You should." John suggested.

I shrugged again, "Why don't you ask someone. Like...Beatrice! She likes you!"

"Beatrice?" John made a face, "Beatrice doesn't like me."

"She's always staring at you."

"I assure you, it's not because she has any interest in me."

"Then why don't you find somebody you do want to take?"

John sighed, "Probably because I can't dance." he reminded me.

"Oh that," I waved him away, "I can teach you."

"You?"

"Sure," I grabbed his arm and dragged him towards the gymnasium, "It's easy."

The gymnasium was empty and dark, so I left the door open. There was plenty of space for John to learn, and everybody else had already left, so we didn't need to worry about disturbing anyone. "What do you want to learn first? Swing?"

"Alfred," I could practically hear John rolling his eyes.

"Here," I started humming, taking John's hands and leading him in a dance. By the end I was singing and John was laughing as I spun us around. "See? It's not that hard, you just move along with the music."

"It's easy when you already have music inside of you." John argued.

"Fine, we can try something a little slower." I started singing again, a slower song, and just the notes instead of the words. I held John's hands at first as we swayed back and forth, then put my hands on his shoulders, gently coaxing him into leading. We were too close for it to have been proper between me and Corinne, let alone me and John. He was staring at me in the dim light-

"Alfred?"

We jumped away from each other.

"I was wondering where you've been?" my brother asked.

"You're old enough to walk yourself home!" I snapped. Matthew didn't move from the doorway. I sighed, "Right, let's go then. I'll see you later, John."

We walked home in tense silence, but as soon as the front door closed behind us Matthew asked, "Why were you dancing with John?"

"He wanted me to teach him how to dance before the formal." I tried to brush Matthew off as I went upstairs to change into some work clothes.

"Alone? In the dark?" he called after me.

I stopped. "Shut up, Matthew!" I snapped.

"I'm not going to tell anyone!" he protested.

"Then mind your own business!"

"I just didn't want anyone else to find you..." he mumbled.

"Mind your own business," I repeated.


End file.
